


Prodigal of Blue

by animeangelriku



Series: Sugar, We're Goin' Down Swinging [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Sugar Baby Crowley, Sugar Daddy Aziraphale (Good Omens), if i have to make that a tag myself I WILL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29663754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeangelriku/pseuds/animeangelriku
Summary: “If you’re going to stay awake,” Aziraphale tells him as he pushes the plate of biscuits closer to Crowley, “you need to keep up your energy. Here.” He grabs the other mug and practically pushes it onto Crowley’s hands. “I made you some coffee.”Fuck. Fucking hell. No one in his entire life hasevermade him coffee before, and here Aziraphale is, awake at 2:30 in the fucking morning, making him coffee just the way he fucking likes it and bringing himbiscuitsso he can stay awake.Damn it. This man is going to be the death of him, and Crowley willthankhim for it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Sugar, We're Goin' Down Swinging [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163456
Comments: 28
Kudos: 245
Collections: Ineffablexxx - Directors Cut





	Prodigal of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I was meant to have this done DAYS ago but the first thing I wrote was the smut and then these two decided to take their long, sweet-ass time getting there. FFS.
> 
> I'm planning for this series to be either five or six parts long, so please stay tuned! I'm having so much fun exploring this verse, and I'm so glad so many of you are in for the ride!
> 
> Thank you so much to [@crvwly](https://twitter.com/crvwly) for the beta-ing!

Crowley is two seconds away from grabbing the stupid, god-forsaken canvas in front of him and smashing it to pieces. He briefly thinks about using it as kindling for Aziraphale’s fireplace, but then Aziraphale will notice the painting is missing and ask him about it and Crowley doesn’t want to deal with that conversation. He’s thrashed unfinished pieces before, and he doesn’t like doing it, doesn’t like the shame and frustration that follows, knowing that he can’t keep going and has to start from scratch.

He doesn’t want to start this from scratch. He can’t do it. He might lose his fucking mind if he has to start this fucking thing over.

God, the table is a mess. Crowley’s lucky that it’s spacious enough to hold the canvas and all his painting supplies, considering he paints on the floor at his own flat, but he still selfishly wishes it could be slightly bigger. He’ll have to save up from what Aziraphale gives him to either buy a bigger one or finally get himself one of those fancy drafting desks that can be tilted up. He’s barely thirty-five and his back has been killing him for the past decade.

“Crowley?”

Crowley turns to look over his shoulder and sees Aziraphale in his ridiculously adorable silk pyjamas, with their ridiculously adorable tartan pattern that would look hideous and even stupid on anybody else. On Aziraphale, they look like they were made for him, and Crowley’s breath hitches.

“Hey.” He clears his suddenly too dry throat. “What’re you doing awake?”

Aziraphale rubs his eyes and yawns. Crowley wants to kiss him. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Need to finish this,” he says, turning back to the current bane of his existence. God, the colours look even _worse_ now. “Sorry, might still be a while.”

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. The painting is meant to be a sunset overlooking the shore, with the very clear instructions that the sky include a shit-tonne of clouds and lots of purples and oranges and pinks and water crashing onto the sand all foamy and Crowley has been staring at this god-fucking-damn sunset for so long he can’t differentiate between his blues and his greys anymore.

He jumps when Aziraphale’s arms wrap around him from behind, and Aziraphale is draped over his back. As much as he can, anyway, with a chair’s backrest between them.

“You’ve been working on this painting for _days._ ” Aziraphale kisses the tattoo snake on his right temple and slowly trails down the side of his face. “Wouldn’t it be better if you took a break? Let your eyes rest for a bit?” 

“Can’t,” Crowley mumbles, dipping his paintbrush into his yellow paint. At this point, he doesn’t care how good or bad the result is, he just cares about finishing. Won’t be the first time someone yells at him for ‘not getting what they paid for.’ 

He just always thought painting would work out better for him than… well. Doesn’t really matter now.

Aziraphale presses a featherlight kiss behind Crowley’s ear, and Crowley tries uselessly to suppress a shiver. He never knew he was so sensitive there.

“Crowley, it’s late,” Aziraphale says as he kisses Crowley’s jaw. “Come back to bed, sweetheart.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Crowley so wants to give in to the temptation, to let Aziraphale take him to bed, maybe even take Aziraphale to bed _himself_. He always wants his angel as is, but even more so when Aziraphale is the one to entice him, when he calls him _darling_ and _dearest_ and _sweetheart_ like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arms, leans down to kiss them, and then gently pulls them away from his chest.

“Can’t,” he repeats, hating himself for it. “Gotta finish this. ’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to happen next. He doesn’t know if Aziraphale will storm back upstairs or if he’ll kick Crowley out or if he’ll huff out a haughty response about Crowley being an ungrateful little shit who’s just taking advantage of Aziraphale’s generosity and hospitality or—or—

He wipes his paintbrush on the damp sheet of paper beside him. He can’t worry about Aziraphale possibly breaking off their Arrangement and finishing this blasted painting at the same time. He _can’t._

Crowley hears Aziraphale’s footsteps decrease in volume as he walks away, and he takes a deep breath to stifle the sudden ache in his chest.

Well. At least there was no yelling. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

Crowley goes on auto-pilot, not even thinking anymore. He really _should_ take a break, maybe a five-minute power nap, but he knows that if he closes his eyes or stands up from his seat, he’s not going to look at this again tonight, and if he doesn’t finish this tonight, he’s not going to finish it. Crowley knows himself.

He’s so focused on the canvas that he nearly leaps out of his chair when a steaming mug and a plate of biscuits suddenly clink onto the table, in one of the few spots Crowley’s art supplies haven’t taken over. When he looks up, Aziraphale is holding a steaming mug himself and dragging a chair so he can sit next to the table, facing Crowley.

“If you’re going to stay awake,” Aziraphale tells him as he pushes the plate of biscuits closer to Crowley, “you need to keep up your energy. Here.” He grabs the other mug and practically pushes it onto Crowley’s hands. “I made you some coffee.” 

Crowley sort of… gapes at Aziraphale. He feels like he’s in some sort of limbo between wakefulness and fantasy, and he almost reaches out to touch Aziraphale’s arm, just to make sure he’s not imagining him sitting there in his tartan silk pyjamas, sipping what must be hot cocoa, because his angel does not fancy coffee as much as Crowley does when he’s working.

He takes a slow drink of the steaming mug and sags against his chair. One milk, two sugars—just how he likes it.

Fuck. Fucking hell. Crowley takes another sip of the coffee to swallow the thickness in his throat. No one in his entire life has _ever_ made him coffee before, and here Aziraphale is, awake at 2:30 in the fucking morning, making him coffee just the way he fucking likes it and bringing him _biscuits_ so he can stay awake.

“I hope I prepared it correctly,” Aziraphale says with a slight blush that makes him look even more beautiful than he already is.

“’s perfect,” Crowley mutters, still awed. “Thanks, angel.”

The smile on Aziraphale’s face would put the sun to shame. Then he blinks as if surprised, and his blush grows deeper.

“Oh, dear,” he says. “I… suppose I should have asked this first, but… Do you mind if I keep you company?”

“No,” Crowley answers immediately, one hand pressed to Aziraphale’s arm. “No, no, not at all. You don’t have to, though, I know it’s late—”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale pats his hand. “I’m perfectly content sitting here with you.”

Damn it. This man is going to be the death of him, and Crowley will _thank_ him for it. 

“Right.” He clears his throat once more. “Well, uh, thanks.”

Aziraphale lets his hand linger a moment over Crowley’s, and then he pulls it back and leans against his chair, drinking his hot cocoa. Crowley's stomach grumbles in protest, and he remembers, for the first time in the last… several hours, that he didn’t eat anything after lunch. He grabs a biscuit and bites into it, and he has to actually _force_ himself not to moan obscenely. It’s the best goddamn biscuit he’s ever had, and Crowley resists the urge to cup Aziraphale’s gorgeous face and kiss him all over.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, hearing Aziraphale laugh. “That’s good.”

“I’m glad you approve,” his angel replies cheekily. 

Crowley lets the biscuit crumble in his mouth and swallows it before he speaks. “You sure you’re okay just sitting here? I dunno how long this is gonna take.”

“That’s all right, darling,” Aziraphale says. “I might catch up on my reading. But is it okay with you if I watch you paint for a little bit?”

Now Crowley is the one who blushes, feeling the heat travelling all the way down to his neck and up to the tips of his ears, which is really fucking embarrassing.

“Uh. Er.” He looks down at the blasted mess on his canvas. He understands someone wanting the final product, but the fact that Aziraphale wants to watch him _while_ he paints is… Well, it’s sort of _intimate_ in a different way than sex is. The sex, Crowley has no problem with. He loves sex with Aziraphale, big fan of it, he is, but this feels like baring his soul, in a sense. Like he’s ripping his chest open and showing everything he is to Aziraphale—including the worst, ugliest parts of him.

The parts he most wants to keep hidden from his angel.

Aziraphale looks so hopeful, though…

Crowley knows that he can say no, and Aziraphale will neither push nor snap at him, because he never has. And yet Crowley can’t even imagine saying no to him.

“Y-yeah,” he finally answers. “’Course, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggles on his chair—fucking _wiggles_ , Jesus, it’s a miracle Crowley hasn’t gotten down on his knees—and smiles like he does whenever he’s particularly pleased.

“Oh,” he exhales. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, unable to think of anything else. The back of his neck burns, and he almost wishes Aziraphale would cup his hand around it and scratch at the hair there with his nails.

“Right!” He shoves another biscuit in his mouth, gulps it down with a swig of coffee that nearly scalds his tongue, and gets back to work.

Now that he’s had a few minutes of staring at Aziraphale’s beautiful, angelic face, his eyes are no longer blurring the colours on the canvas into one disfigured blob. He can see he was starting to overuse the purple, and his sun looks more like it’s rising rather than setting, but other than that, he hasn’t been doing as badly as he’d thought not even five minutes ago. 

He can do this. He’s almost done. Okay, he’s more like 2/3 of the way there. 3/4? Whatever, the point is he can finish this tonight. All Crowley needs is a few more touches on the sun and sky and a bit more foam on the shore. Oh, actually, the ocean itself needs a bit more light, too.

Crowley’s got this.

His mind goes back to working on auto-pilot, except the reason it does is because he knows exactly what he’s doing now rather than because he’s given up.

Crowley can distantly hear Aziraphale gasp and exhale in amazement, though his angel does his best to remain quiet (so as not to distract him, Crowley guesses), and he tries to keep his hands steady under Aziraphale’s intense gaze. The last thing he wants is to embarrass himself more than he already has.

He loses track of time, sipping his perfect coffee and nibbling on biscuits while Aziraphale watches. At no point does he stand up to go get a book, like Crowley figured he would after some time. He… actually _does_ seem content just observing Crowley’s brushstrokes, which is still a flabbergasting thought. Maybe he can try painting for Aziraphale someday. He’ll do something that’s not a fucking landscape, that’s for fucking sure. Unless Aziraphale likes landscapes. Does he? Well, if he does, Crowley will paint as many of them as he needs to in order to give Aziraphale the best one he can do. 

He runs the paintbrush through the corner of the canvas to lighten the sky there, just a tad. He moves to the opposite corner, to the bottom of the shore, so he can paint a few more reflections of the setting sun in the sand, and then he leans back on his chair.

That’s it. He’s done.

“m done,” Crowley mumbles, mostly to himself. It… it’s not his best work, and if he hadn’t left half of it to literally the day before the fucking tosser goes to pick it up, it would’ve turned out much better, and Crowley knows it. But considering he did paint half of the entire goddamn thing in one sitting, it did not turn out as bad as it could have, and he’s just going to roll with it. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gets up from his chair and stands next to Crowley after gently setting his empty mug on the table. “Oh, Crowley, it’s beautiful!”

“Eh.” He shrugs. Now that he’s finally finished this nightmare, all of Crowley’s remaining energy drains out of him in a rush, and his half-asleep brain wonders how he’s still standing. “Not as many clouds as the wanker asked for.”

“Well, if this… gentleman doesn’t appreciate your work,” Aziraphale says as he grips Crowley’s elbow, “then that is on him, and he will be wrong, because this is a masterpiece.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Crowley sputters. “Angel, ‘s not even one of my better paintings.”

“Crowley,” his angel gasps, and squeezes his elbow. “If that is so, then you are so much more talented than I thought!”

God. Crowley legitimately can’t think of an appropriate answer to such high praise from Aziraphale, who has such equally high standards for the things he considers beautiful.

“Thanks,” he ends up saying, and then he grabs Aziraphale’s hand and begins the trek upstairs to his angel’s giant bedroom. He’ll clean up tomorrow. Right now, all Crowley wants is to wash his hands, splash some water on his face, and collapse next to Aziraphale.

When they reach the bedroom, Crowley spares a glance at the clock on his nightstand and grimaces. It’s nearly four in the morning. He spent the last six hours working on that blasted painting—but Aziraphale spent the last hour and a half with him. Crowley knows he would have lost his mind without him. His angel and his coffee and his biscuits made that last stretch so much more bearable.

Crowley stands in front of the bed and gestures to the ensuite bathroom.

“I’mma just…” He trails off. He’s bad with words as it is, but now his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and his mind is slow and foggy.

Aziraphale smiles kindly at him and lets go of his hand. “Yes, my dear.”

He turns to the bed just as Crowley stumbles towards the bathroom. He turns the faucet on all the way and lets it run over his hands before he scrubs the paint off them, switching his attention to his face afterwards. The small splotches on his arms won’t come out without a shower, but at least he washed the sweat and grime off, for the most part. That’s really all that matters.

He’ll take a shower tomorrow. No, no, no—after tonight, he deserves a long, hot bath. He can try to convince Aziraphale to join him, even. It would surely be easier to fool around in his angel’s fancy bathtub than in the shower.

Crowley shakes his head to himself. He can’t be having those thoughts when he’s falling asleep on his feet.

When he walks back into the bedroom, Aziraphale is already on the bed, pulling the sheets up to his chest. At the sight of Crowley standing on the bathroom doorway, he smiles again and pats the empty space next to him, like Crowley will not take any chance he gets to sleep on the same surface as Aziraphale, be it a bed or a mattress on the floor or anything else, really.

Crowley slithers beneath the bedsheets, and before he can think better of it, he curls into Aziraphale’s side and wraps his arms around him, throwing a leg over him for good measure so he’s clinging to him as if Aziraphale were a giant teddy bear. With his fuzzy arms and his soft belly and his plush thighs, he might as well be. And he always smells so good, too, Crowley doesn’t know if it’s some sort of cologne or if that’s just pure Aziraphale, but it’s not like it matters, he still nuzzles Aziraphale’s chest and inhales, deeply and loudly, through his nose.

Aziraphale chuckles and cards his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

Oh, Crowley almost starts purring. He has never cared much for people touching his hair, much preferring that they don’t. It’s always felt like something private, part of his personal space, and he has never really understood others’ fascination with touching it.

But the first time Aziraphale caressed the locks at the back of his neck—a soft, delicate, unconscious touch—Crowley was a goner. It felt… right, somehow. He felt desired and wanted, yes, but also looked after, taken care of.

_Safe._

Crowley melted against Aziraphale before he could even realise he was doing it, and Aziraphale, quick learner that he is, figured out it was one more thing he could do to turn Crowley’s bones liquid, to send heat coursing through him and pull ridiculous little noises out of him.

Aziraphale’s nails gently scratch his scalp, and Crowley bites his lip, tightening the grip of his limbs around Aziraphale. He is so tired, so completely exhausted after the fucking ordeal of the last six hours, and yet Crowley’s hips rut forward of their own volition as his cock begins to harden embarrassingly fast in his sweatpants.

The sound of surprise and arousal Aziraphale makes should not be legal.

“My dear,” he whispers raggedly, turning his body sideways so he can better slot his thigh between Crowley’s and _fuck,_ Aziraphale’s already hard, too. He moves his other hand to Crowley’s arse and pulls their hips together, still scratching at Crowley’s nape.

“A-Aziraphale…” Crowley buries his head on the crook of Aziraphale’s neck as he continues to rub against him. He should stop, he should pull away, he should make Aziraphale come and then excuse himself to the loo to have a wank; not because he doesn’t want Aziraphale— _god,_ when does he _not_ want him?—but because he’s too tired to do anything more than fuck Aziraphale through their clothes, and his angel deserves better than that.

Jesus fucking Christ, Crowley can’t bear the thought of letting Aziraphale down.

“I—” Aziraphale kisses a spot behind his ear before tugging on the lobe with his teeth, and Crowley hisses. “A-angel, I—I can barely keep my eyes open—”

“That’s all right, darling.” Aziraphale presses his palm to Crowley’s chest and firmly pushes him down until Crowley is on his back, his arms and legs falling to the bed with his angel on top of him. He cups Crowley’s face tenderly, like he might break if he’s not careful, and kisses him, open-mouthed and wet and deep and Crowley shivers all the way down to his toes. Just when he starts to think they might stay here kissing until the world ends, Aziraphale pulls away so slowly that there’s a gleaming trail of saliva between their mouths, one that Crowley is very tempted to lick from his lips.

“Just lie down, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale tells him, _orders_ him, and Crowley feels himself sinking into the mattress, “and let me take care of you.”

Crowley has no chance to say anything. Aziraphale descends upon him with lips and teeth and tongue, sucking kisses onto the line of his jaw with enough strength to leave bruises, and Crowley groans loudly and without shame. He loves bearing Aziraphale’s marks, loves looking at himself in the mirror and pressing his fingers to them, knowing that he belongs to Aziraphale, that his angel _owns_ him, staking a claim on him for everyone to see. 

Aziraphale’s body presses Crowley’s down against the bed, hands gripping Crowley’s hips and holding them in place, and Crowley moans when he feels the thick, hard cock rutting against his own through four layers of clothing that he desperately wants _off._ But Aziraphale told him to stay still, that he would take care of him, and Aziraphale always keeps his word. Whatever he gives Crowley, Crowley will take.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s mouth trails kisses from his jaw to his neck, sucking on his thundering pulse. Crowley throws his head back to give him better access, and he feels Aziraphale’s smile against his skin. “ _Oh,_ such a good boy,” Aziraphale says as his teeth graze his throat, and Crowley whimpers pathetically, a sound that his angel soothes with a thumb brushing his cheek. “You’re so wonderful, precious thing, let me hear you now, don’t be shy.”

_Fuck,_ Crowley can’t say no to him, has never been able to.

He arches into Aziraphale’s body with a cry, wrapping his arms around him and clinging to his pyjama top. Aziraphale huffs out a chuckle, bright and hot and damp, and then one of his hands moves to the front of Crowley’s sweatpants and curves around his length.

“ _Ngh,_ shit, fuck _me!_ ” Crowley gasps, rocking his hips into Aziraphale’s palm. His briefs are nearly soaked through by now, he can feel how they stick to his skin.

“Not tonight, darling,” Aziraphale mumbles teasingly, licking at the corner of his mouth. “Tomorrow, perhaps.” When he slots one of his legs between Crowley’s and the fucking meat of his thigh brushes his cock, Crowley keens hoarsely.

“Please,” he begs as his hips continue to grind against Aziraphale’s thigh. “Please, angel, _please_ touch me, I’ll do anything—”

Then Aziraphale’s hand slides inside his sweatpants, his briefs, and wraps around the hot flesh of his cock. Crowley screams and swears he sees stars behind his eyelids.

“You don’t need to do anything, my dear.” Aziraphale squeezes his fingers around the base, his thumb trailing along a vein. “Just feel my hand on you.” 

Crowley does.

Aziraphale knows exactly how to stroke his length, how fast to tug on the head, how hard to tease at his slit, and Crowley is dangerously close to the edge. His climax builds above his cock, in his balls, and Aziraphale grips his waist and settles his thigh more firmly between his legs and Crowley snaps his hips desperately, chasing his release, the heat curling his fingers and his toes.

Aziraphale speeds up his strokes. “Come on, dearest. You’ve been so good, so marvellous, I know you can, I know you want to.”

“Angel…” Crowley bites his lip to muffle his trembling gasps, but Aziraphale kisses him and swipes his tongue over that lip, reminding Crowley what he asked of him.

_Let me hear you now, don’t be shy._

“Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, his voice a breathy moan. “I’m… _fuck,_ you feel so good, so fucking good, want you to touch me always, n-never stop touching me, fuck, _shit,_ ‘m not g-gonna last m-much longer, _angel_ —!”

All it takes is feeling Aziraphale’s cock frotting down against him and a twist of Aziraphale’s wrist on him and then Crowley’s coming with a sob, pulling Aziraphale down so their chests are pressed together.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale tells him as he strokes him through his orgasm, coaxing the last spurts of come out of him and onto his fingers. “Oh, that’s it, Crowley, I love watching you come, you’re so absolutely beautiful, my sweet boy…”

He peppers Crowley’s face with soft, gentle kisses while Crowley regains his breath, his chest heaving until it slows beneath the weight of his angel’s body. Aziraphale carefully pulls his hand out of Crowley’s briefs, and before he can even think of getting up to fetch something to clean him, Crowley grabs his hand and wipes it on his sweatpants.

Aziraphale blushes, which is goddamn ridiculous, considering what he just did, but Crowley simply shrugs and pulls him down once more—

—and he realises that Aziraphale is still hard in his bottoms.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s blush deepens. “Um. As much as I would like to stay here, dearest, I, er, do need you to excuse me for a moment.” 

Oh, this will _not_ fucking stand.

After his orgasm, Crowley’s body is even less cooperative than usual, but he still manages to shove Aziraphale enough to settle them both on their sides and hitch one of his angel’s legs over his hip. He reaches down to undo the strung bow and buttons on Aziraphale’s pyjamas.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, blinking owlishly. “Y-you said you could barely keep your eyes open, you don’t have to—”

Fuck that.

“Shh.” Crowley tugs Aziraphale’s bottoms down to have easier access to his cock and immediately wraps his fingers around it. “My turn.”

Aziraphale curses under his breath, his forehead dropping against Crowley’s. “Oh, darling…”

Crowley wants to pull more of those sweet noises and words out of him, almost desperate in his urge, in his _need_ , to make Aziraphale come. He pushes a knee against the hard length of him, holding Aziraphale’s leg over his hip with one hand and stroking him faster and faster with the other one.

_“Yes!”_ Aziraphale grows frenetic chasing his own release, fucking Crowley’s hand with quick and short thrusts of his hips as he clings to Crowley’s back. “Yes, dearest, just like tha— _ah!_ Oh, you precious thing, you’re always so good to me, so _good_ —”

Crowley growls low in his throat and leans forward to catch Aziraphale’s mouth with his teeth. This is everything he wants: to be good for Aziraphale, to be the object of his desire, to bring him more pleasure than his angel has ever known. It’s the only thing he can be.

It’s the only thing he has to offer. 

“C’mon, angel.” Crowley grips Aziraphale’s leg, his mouth watering at the heft, and hitches it higher over his hip to pull him closer, push his knee harder, stroke Aziraphale faster. “C’mon, Aziraphale, give it to me.”

_Come all over me,_ he wants to scream. _Mark me so no one else will touch what’s yours._

Aziraphale’s nails dig into his back, his body taut beneath Crowley’s touch. He rocks his hips one more time, fucks Crowley’s hand one more time, and then he’s coming with a cry of ecstasy that sears itself into Crowley’s brain, as well as the visual that accompanies it.

Aziraphale’s rosy cheeks are flushed, his brow furrowed slightly, his parted mouth inhaling and exhaling hot puffs of air. His head is already falling onto the pillow, and his eyes slowly flutter open as Crowley drops his softening cock and wipes his hand on his sweatpants before tucking Aziraphale back into his tartan bottoms.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale groans and noses Crowley’s cheekbone. “Must you really? I’d have as easily fetched something to clean us up.”

“And deprive me of this?” Crowley replies, wrapping one arm around Aziraphale’s waist. The thumb of his other hand traces little circles on his angel’s leg, still hiked over his. “You kidding? ’m never washing these sweatpants again.”

Aziraphale scrunches his nose in disgust, which makes Crowley nip gently at it. 

“’sides,” he continues. “Didn’t want you to get outta bed.”

Crowley lets himself admit as much, decided to blame it on his post-orgasm haze if Aziraphale were to ask him about it or bring it up. But he just couldn’t stand the thought of Aziraphale leaving his arms. Even now, he can’t stand it. And he really doesn’t mind the come-stained sweatpants. If anything, Crowley finds them way hotter than he probably should. Then again, they’re already his painting sweatpants, it’s not like anyone else other than him and Aziraphale are ever going to see them.

Luckily for him, Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind all that much, because he lets out a sigh of faux resignation and cuddles closer to Crowley, who usually hates the word ‘cuddles’ but allows it with Aziraphale—and privately. 

Crowley laps at the sweat on Aziraphale’s neck with his tongue, burying his face on the crook. Despite the heat and dampness and the little bit of stickiness between them, Aziraphale somehow still smells so fucking good, so frustratingly _sexy,_ and Crowley can’t help taking his fill of his angel’s scent. 

He’s never particularly liked any sex-related smell, during or after. He’s never been crazy about any smell, really, but then he met Aziraphale, and now Crowley has what he considers to be an actual _obsession_ with Aziraphale’s scent. He doesn’t know if it’s his fancy, expensive cologne or how much he takes care of his clothes or if it’s just how Aziraphale _smells,_ but it’s the best odour Crowley’s nostrils have ever had the honour of inhaling.

Crowley groans quietly to himself and nuzzles the crook of Aziraphale’s neck deeper. Why is it that Aziraphale brings these… sappy, mushy, _disgusting_ thoughts to his head?

Because he loves him, that’s why.

Oh.

He loves Aziraphale.

Fuck.

Fuck, shit, goddamn it all, he loves Aziraphale, and he can’t keep denying it to himself any longer.

It was never supposed to happen. Crowley told himself he could handle their Arrangement: he could handle being the Sugar Baby of such a strikingly gorgeous man like Aziraphale, who did not ask for anything other than his company, who treats him like he’s someone worthy of— of— of admiration and respect and _gentleness_ and yet fucks him rough and hard when he asks for it, who begs oh so prettily when he wants Crowley to fuck him, who knows him better than Crowley knows himself.

One of Aziraphale’s hand comes up to caress his hair, and Crowley shivers and melts at the touch. It’s pathetic how much he wants his angel’s hands on him all the time, he wants Aziraphale to touch him _always_ , he doesn’t want _anyone_ other than Aziraphale to touch him ever again. But he knows their Arrangement will end at some point. Eventually, Aziraphale will get tired of Crowley, and Crowley will beg and plead with him to let him stay, to let him be part of his life, but he will ultimately walk away because he knows his angel deserves better than him.

Eventually, his angel will no longer be his.

Crowley mouths at the skin of Aziraphale’s neck, trying to memorize the feel of it, how it tastes, wanting to remind himself that, at least for now, he still has Aziraphale. He still gets to be with him, for however long Aziraphale will have him.

He doesn’t notice he’s begun to fall asleep until Aziraphale chuckles quietly and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Goodnight, darling boy.” His voice is like honey, sweet and thick and soothing. “Sleep well.”

“Y’too,” Crowley mumbles sluggishly. “Night.” 

He’s out like a light before he can finish speaking, clinging to Aziraphale with the futile, desperate hope that he will never have to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please consider leaving a comment and kudos if you liked this, I'm so proud of this smut and I love it so much and I want to hear what y'all think of it! 
> 
> Feel free to come scream at me on [tumblr](https://animeangelriku.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/animedemonriku)!


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